Her face was there, embedded into a stone. She could not move. Her mouth was largely opened on her white teeth like ivory. She could not move. Her eyes fixed at me with their sparkling globes, ecstatic. She would never move again, her scull flattened on to the stone. Already, cervical liquids escaped from the curls that ornate her scull.
She smashed into the stone, she passed away during her ecstasy and seemed still joyful at this very last moment of her orgasm.
I tried to extract myself from her embrace. She was tighten to me like to keep me forever into her dream.
I took it of with such a pain that I heard escaped by the opening, an astonishing murmur, an almost unintelligible moan, the only sound of these moments of ........ sexual trances.
At the top of the cliff, I saw in a confuse manner, the alignment of the men astonished in front of the spectacle, they could not move. I had neither the time nor the will to analyze the situation, I climbed the cliff, careless of the fearful men who waited for me at the top of the cliff.
The climbing seems very long. I saw the faces growing which contours almost crumbled against the light of the sun, they blended with the landscape. I trampled over the obstacles with determination, the stones, the bramble, the detritus that accompanied us during our long and slow slalom and leave such bruises on my body, a mortal wound on her body, her body of young primitive girl.
I arrived at last at the top of the cliff, I almost touched the feet of the convicts and soldiers who formed the demarcation line between the cliff and the road. I apprehended the reception but a certain strength urged me to go on, I went through the line with determination, without hesitation and direct myself towards the camping car.
I was now ready to anything and without hesitation, I enter into the car, ignited the engine and drove on the vehicle. The men stayed there astounded, impotent to any action, they looked at me without any gesture, freeze into a sort of ecstatic sleep.
We drove like mad, feeling all the crevices of the road. We drove through towns and villages, without saying a word, breaking through the barricades or paying the backchish without any palabras in the hope of going out of the country like from hell. We reached Ivory Coast in the night just before the definitive closing of the border.
And 
since then, I often recall
the visage of the impetuous Ghanaian girl, freeze in ecstasy by the ultimate gesture of love and my persistent remorse of not having died in her arms. I also recall these men, these impotent men, petrified by the fatal sacrilege of the impetuous Ghanaian girl and their cowardliness to let me live.
Marco Polo or the imaginary journey (Translated from Contes et légendes érotiques d'Afrique, november 1998) © 1996 Jean-Pierre Lapointe
(tribute to Leni Riefenstahl and the beautiful people of Kau)
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